


Crepes with Pomegranate Syrup

by Archet



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crepes, Flirting, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:09:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26429914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archet/pseuds/Archet
Summary: You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you enjoy justorderingthings.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 28





	Crepes with Pomegranate Syrup

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I did not create these characters, only this fic. No infringement intended.  
> Feedback: welcomed and appreciated

Aziraphale adjusted his bow-tie and sat up a bit straighter, fingertips smoothing over the cream-colored jacket lapels that were, in fact, already perfectly aligned. Crowley, slouching in his chair alongside Aziraphale with an insouciance perfected over a millennia, observed the rituals of his angel friend from behind the round, opaque lenses of his sunglasses.

“I suppose,” Crowley said slowly, drawing out his words to coincide with the tail-end of the fidgeting, “I could go for another round.” Crowley raised a brow when Aziraphale’s blue eyes practically gleamed. “That is, if you don’t have somewhere pressing to be, just now.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale said somewhat abashed, “you really don’t mind? I do know that you’re not as enamored of the…well, the culinary experience as I am. I’d be delighted, it should go without saying.” 

Crowley shrugged, pursing his lips to hide his smile, pleased that Aziraphale’s gaze was on him a little firmer when he did so. Turning toward the tables arrayed around them in the airy, elegantly appointed room, a flick of his fingers garnered a waiter’s attention. As the man made his way over Crowley gestured to Aziraphale’s pristinely clean plate. “More of the same, then? Or something different this time?”

With a measured, indrawn breath, Aziraphale considered his options as if the weight of nations lay upon him. Observing that the fidgeting had now been transferred to the dinnerware, Crowley waited patiently. He watched as Aziraphale’s immaculate fingers danced over the silver fork and accompanying spoon, as he folded his napkin in precise quarters before laying it aside.

“More crepes, I should think, only this time,” and Aziraphale paused, looking out over the table in that peculiar way of his, chin tilted down, bright eyes seeking out Crowley’s as he pitched his voice softer. “Only this time let’s have the _pomegranate_ syrup.”

“Ah,” said Crowley slowly, savoring the bow of a smile curving along Aziraphale’s mouth. “Very apt. Pomegranate it is, then.”

Crowley relayed their order to the waiter in perfect French, then turned back to find Aziraphale watching him rather intently. “What? Did you want something more?” he asked.

Aziraphale blinked, shaking his head with a soft huff of a laugh. “You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you enjoy just _ordering_ things.” He sat back in his chair, head titled to the side as he regarded Crowley with a look of wonderment.

Crowley shrugged, and turning to face Aziraphale fully, he nudged his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose with one finger, just enough to flash his slitted, lambent eyes at his friend. “Well, I like ordering for _you_ , in any case. And who knows, maybe one day I’ll try ordering _you_ around, see where we get with that.” 

A moment of perfect stillness fell between them, broken only by the soft hum of distant conversations and the gentle clatter of silverware clinking against plates.

“Oh, well, that’d probably go about as well as you’d expect,” Aziraphale said faintly after a beat, brow raised, and though he did not elaborate further his eyes had that familiar luminous glow again. 

Smirking, Crowley slipped his sunglasses back in place and returned to his slouch. He crossed his legs and slung one arm over the back of his chair. His fingertips would just graze the linen of Aziraphale’s jacket, if he wished to reach out and touch the angel. 

“Ah. Something to look forward to, then,” Crowley said, corner of his mouth curling up. 

Aziraphale’s reply was interrupted by the arrival of their crepes with pomegranate syrup, though Crowley suspected it was hidden just behind Aziraphale’s polite smile; he’d find it later, in his own time.


End file.
